A slow smile warmed her features. ‘Let me think about it.’ Her tone of voice was final, and she lengthened her stride to indicate the conversation was over.

They passed under the Truman Brewery bridge towards the area where the soup shop was based. Here, the landscape had a completely different vibe. The Indian restaurants were replaced by vintage clothing shops, record stores, bars, and posh cafés selling speciality coffees. They passed one bar after another, licensed cafés, clubs, nouvelle cuisine restaurants and trendy health food outlets. Pumped male bouncers stood threateningly, Bluetooth earpieces inserted. Their tight charcoal suits made their biceps look like they’d been shrink-wrapped.

‘With those prices you’d think the rent-a-muscle would be herding the public in, not trying to keep people out.’

Maya laughed. ‘Reverse psychology, I think. They want to give the impression of exclusivity.’

They walked past a place selling second-hand coats. ‘All vintage,’ said a guy with the teeniest goatee Dan had ever seen. He was wearing a calf-length black coat with a purple velvet trim, presumably one of his bargains.

‘There are more and more hipster joints, slick bars and late-night clubs,’ Maya said. ‘If the landlords can command a higher rent from those, the Bangladeshis will be forced to sell up or to change the sorts of businesses they run.’ She kicked at some decaying leaves in the gutter. Stood still for a moment and gestured to a shop with dressed manikins in the window. ‘That place, Pick Your Vintage, was targeted by demonstrators a few years ago. A load of people wearing masks set on the place. They had fire torches and lobbed paint over the shop front.’ Maya was shaking her head.

‘What was it about?’

‘Buying up clothes cheaply from charity shops, hiking the prices and selling them as vintage. A shop that appeals to the well-off rather than one that everyone can afford to . . . ’

The deafening sound of a pneumatic drill drowned out her reply. The whole street shuddered and shook: pavements, the road, all the shops and buildings on Brick Lane. Dan could feel the vibration in his body. It was like his brain was being rattled about inside his head.

‘Five days that bloody racket’s been going on for.’ A young guy had stopped at a graffiti-sprayed door. He placed a LIDL bag at his feet while he fished in his pockets for his keys. ‘They’re drilling through concrete and laying the foundations for a new ten-storey development on the old school playing fields. Bloody penthouse flats with a private gym in the basement and a roof-terrace.’ Ripped drainpipe jeans and a grubby jacket clung to a skinny frame. He pointed behind the shops, then pushed the flat door open. ‘You’re Old Bill, aren’t you? I saw you at the fire yesterday.’

Dan gave a cool smile and got out his warrant. ‘Did you know the people who ran the soup shop?’